Moonwroth Crown

“A bad dream?” said Kael, a shepherd’s son with a sharp tongue and quicker · smile. “Then we must burn it out of you.” · Mira splashed water toward Aren. “Or drown it.” · “That may improve his mood,” Lysa added. “But not his face.” · Aren could not help smiling despite himself. · Their voices, bright and teasing, pulled him back from the dark places inside his · mind. Here, by the river, with sunlight on the water and mud under his knees, · the nightmare seemed almost foolish. · Almost. · “What was the dream?” Mira asked. · Aren’s smile faded. · “Nothing worth telling.” · Kael leaned closer with exaggerated seriousness. “Ah. So it was about · someone.” · “No.” · “It was,” Lysa said at once. “Look at him. He denied it too quickly.” · Mira’s eyes brightened. “Then we know why he has been wandering like a lost · prince. The Moonfire Gathering is near.” · At that, the conversation turned as swiftly as a bird changing direction. · The Moonfire Gathering would be held at the next full moon on the slopes of · Mount Veyr. People from Brackenford and the nearby villages would climb to · the sacred clearing, wearing new summer cloth. At dusk, the elders would light · the great bonfire, and everyone would sing, dance, and feast until dawn. · For the older villagers, it was a celebration of spring. · For the young, it meant something far more dangerous. · At Moonfire, a boy or girl could offer a song to the one they favored. If the song · was answered, the two would exchange gifts before the flames. A carved comb. · A bronze ring. A ribbon. A charm. Something small enough to hide in the palm, · yet heavy enough to change a life. · Many betrothals began beneath that fire. · And for weeks, the village had spoken of little else. · “So,” Kael said, wringing water from a cloak, “who will receive Aren’s tragic · song?” · “I have no tragic song,” Aren said. · “That is a lie,” Mira replied. “You look exactly like someone who has one · prepared.” · Lysa began naming girls from the village. “Nera? Savi? Talla from the west · farm? Or perhaps Jorin’s sister from Stonebend?” · Aren laughed and shook his head each time. · “Wrong.” · “Then give us a clue,” Mira demanded. · “No.” · “Coward.” · “Better a coward than a fool who tells secrets by the river.” · Kael placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “He wounds us. After all our · loyalty.” · Aren finally laughed properly. · For a while, the nightmare retreated. · He was only a village boy among friends, kneeling beside a bright river while · spring opened around him. · But above the laughter, beyond the hills, a raven circled once against the pale · morning sky. · None of the others noticed it. · Aren did. · It flew from the east. · And tied to one of its black legs was a strip of silver cloth. · Aren leaned closer to the others, lowering his voice as if he were about to · confess some dangerous secret. · “The one I will sing for,” he whispered, “is Princess Selene of the Sun · Throne.” · For one breath, the riverbank fell silent. · Then everyone erupted. · “That is cheating!” Mira cried, throwing a wet cloth at him. · “Aren!” Lysa gasped. “Have you lost your senses?” · Kael burst into laughter. “Princess Selene? The emperor’s daughter? Why not · ask the moon to marry you while you are dreaming so high?” · Aren caught the wet cloth before it struck his face and grinned. “You asked. I · answered.” · “She will not be at the Moonfire Gathering,” Mira said, rolling her eyes. “Royal · blood does not climb village hills to hear shepherd boys sing.” · “Do not be so certain,” Aren replied, trying to sound wise. “The priests say the · Light watches every vow made beneath the Moonfire. If the Light can witness it, · why should his daughter not?” · Kael gave him a look of mock pity. “Even if Princess Selene had a hundred · bodies, she could not attend every spring gathering in Eldoria.” · “And besides,” Lysa added, “she is at the eastern border with the emperor’s · army.” · “At the warfront,” Mira said softly, and for a moment the laughter thinned. · Everyone knew the stories. · Princess Selene, daughter of the Sun Emperor, was said to ride beneath a banner · of white flame. Some claimed her armor shone brighter than dawn. Others · whispered she had never lost a battle, because the Light itself guided her sword. · Aren lifted his eyes toward the river, pretending wonder. · “They say she wears silver armor carved with sunfire,” he said. “And when she · rides into battle, even enemy kings forget how to breathe.” · Mira snorted. “Listen to him. He sounds like one of the temple singers.” · Lysa clasped her hands dramatically. “Oh, noble Aren, will you abandon us poor · villagers and dedicate your heart to the divine princess?” · Kael smirked. “Perhaps he will become a holy warrior and spend his life · guarding her shrine.” · Aren laughed with them, but something about the joke unsettled him. · A shrine. · A woman in silver. · A face turning slowly in a hall of shadows. · He forced the memory away. · “Such an honor would never be given to a mud-footed village boy like me,” he · said lightly. “So I suppose I must settle for ordinary life.” · “That is better,” Mira said. “Dreams are dreams. The Moonfire is real.” · Aren nodded, though the words did not sit easily in him. · The others spoke of songs, gifts, ribbons, and secret promises. Kael claimed he · had carved something already but refused to say for whom. Lysa accused Mira · of hiding a bronze bracelet beneath her mattress. Their laughter returned, bright · and quick as sunlight on water. · But Aren felt strangely distant from it all. · He knew he should care. · The Moonfire Gathering mattered. It was the beginning of adulthood. The · moment when village boys stopped being boys and chose the shape of their · future. There were kind girls in Brackenford, clever girls, beautiful girls. Any · one of them would make a fine wife someday. · Yet when Aren tried to imagine himself standing beside one of them before the · sacred fire, the picture blurred. · It was not that he disliked the village. · He loved it. · He loved the river, the wheat fields, the smoke rising from familiar roofs, the · sound of Maera humming while kneading bread. He loved the safety of small · things. · But somewhere inside him, another life kept calling.